Love, Tussles, and Takedowns (Cactus Creek #3)(2)

It made no sense whatsoever.

But logical or not, every glittering wink of silver kept snagging his focus, hypnotizing him like a swinging golden watch. So much so that the next prismatic shimmer almost caused him to miss the way her eyes caught and narrowed on the tall man in his early forties standing near the entrance. The same man Hudson had made a mental note of earlier as well.

A possible threat.

There was something in the agitated way the man held himself, the latent aggression in his expression that had pinged Hudson’s potential-dangerous-persons radar at first glance.

Discovering that his mystery woman operated off a similar radar was a revelation.

She was getting more and more fascinating by the minute.

Just as he’d made a point to do a quick sweep of the other audience members for anymore radar pings, the woman did three more room-spanning camera-shutter blinks. Then she was walking into the doors of the Phoenix Convention Center grand ballroom with the other presenters, the eager audience filing in right behind them for what was clearly a big deal for this year’s antique gun show.

Having never actually been to an antique gun show before, Hudson was surprised to see the varied exhibit rooms set up more like an art gallery opening while the rest of the large space looked like a prototypical trade show with collectors and vendors packed in like sardines.

Even more surprising than the museum-quality display cases his mystery woman was walking toward was the presence of the two Spencer’s Antique Arms workers who were clearly doubling as guards. Interesting. Though his brief stateside visits back to Arizona over the last decade had been few and far between, even he knew of the Spencer’s massive full-service shop.

They were the best when it came to rare and premiere antique arms, handling everything from exclusive auctions to authentication, restoration, and fabrication. In fact, his current boss in L.A. subcontracted work to Spencer’s for the antique rifles they couldn’t replicate themselves for the historical documentary films they consulted on.

That innocent little reminder of his present employment was a jarring bungee cord snap bringing Hudson back to his present surroundings with a jolt—the complimentary cup of coffee he’d picked up from the refreshment table was now cold; and Pete, his former mentor-of-sorts during his Ranger days whom he’d come here specifically to catch up with was now nowhere to be seen. Not that he blamed the guy for ditching him. Hudson’s mystery woman had stolen his attention from Pete mid-conversation nearly—he checked his watch—shit, ten minutes ago. Dumping the stale coffee in the trash, he went off in search of Pete’s vendor booth.

He wasn’t going to hear the end of this one.

The big-ass company banner advertising ‘high-end custom weapons cabinets’ was easy enough to spot a few rows down, as was Pete’s salesman-of-the-year smile, which looked to be smack-dab in the middle of a sales pitch.

A good pitch, apparently, if the two additional customers hanging on his every word was any indication.

When the kindly old gentleman in the white Stetson started enthusiastically flipping through one of the premium catalogs on display, Pete took that opportunity to look over and give Hudson a brow-raised chin-jut that none-too-quietly called out, ‘welcome-back-to-reality, princess.’

Hudson chuckled. Pete had always been like the big brother he never wanted. After a brief nod back, Hudson automatically began a close-fisted halfway hand motion that he belatedly halted midair.

Much to Pete’s amusement.

Right.

Hudson could use actual words now to explain he’d be back in a bit after looking around.

But before he could, Pete’s immediately pouncing response—the exaggerated, but of course army-accurate, tactical hand signals directed back at Hudson with a hyena-grin—had all three of Pete’s customers curiously looking Hudson’s way.

The jackass.

Hudson responded with a one-fingered hand signal of his own as he turned and made his way to the grand ballroom, Pete’s boisterous chortles trailing behind him.

As he passed exhibit after exhibit, it didn’t take long for him to get the appeal of it all. Honestly, he’d never expected a room full of antique firearms to be, well, interesting. But they were. Each historic, each uniquely personal. All strangely moving. Definitely a different glimpse into the world of weapons he only knew as a modern day soldier.

When his perusal around the exhibits finally brought him around to the vicinity of his gorgeous little bouncer’s display, his feet took him closer without conscious thought.

The warm glow that lit her face drew him, and seemingly everyone else in viewing radius, right in. She was confident and passionate, and tickled pink. Captivating them all as she animatedly told them how she’d brought a few rare showcase pieces as an impromptu show-and-tell before her scheduled presentation.

Circling around, he’d expected to see her carrying a musket, maybe an old war pistol.

He never expected her to come out with an antique first generation Type One AK-47, a rarity that Hudson had never actually seen before.

The way she then began talking about the ancestor of the assault rifle that had been like his fifth limb throughout his entire Army career showed she understood weapons—and wars for that matter—at a deeper level than most anyone he’d ever met.

Hell, if she’d been on one of his former Special Forces ops teams, he had no doubt she would’ve been his most dangerously valuable double-edged sword—kicking a whole lot of ass while no doubt distracting him to within an inch of his life on every mission. Pity her gender would’ve shot down any chance of her recruitment; he’d bet his last retirement dollar she was fully capable of sneaking past even the toughest defenses.